


Forever

by luninosity



Series: The Trilogy With The Dropkick Murphys Soundtrack [3]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Comfort, First Kiss, Food Issues, Happy Ending, Hope, Love Confessions, M/M, Protectiveness, Singing, food is love, worried!Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:45:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael comes to find James, and there's a happy ending. Also, food is love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[授权翻译]FOREVER](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608162) by [Shame_i_translate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shame_i_translate/pseuds/Shame_i_translate)



> Part three! Title and opening lines courtesy of the Dropkick Murphys’ “Forever”.

_at times we may fall_   
_like we all tend to do_   
_but I’ll reach out and find_   
_that I’ve run into you_

 

To James’s annoyance, the media acquires a picture of him, walking out to his car, the week after he’s done filming _Filth_. It’s not a flattering picture in any respect, but the tabloids instantly jump on how thin he looks, and start chattering about unhealthy weight gain and equally dramatic loss, and then someone finds on-set photos and starts doing comparisons, and somehow the entire thing becomes one horrifically endless and inescapable story.

He tries to ignore it all—leaping into the fray will only feed the sharks—and at first it’s mostly embarrassing, but then headlines like “James McAvoy Health Crisis” and “Catastrophic Weight Loss!” start popping up, and when one particular tabloid suggests that he’s suffering from some unspecified form of cancer, he does go on record in an attempt to refute that one.

Not surprisingly, it doesn’t work (“Actor Denies Rumors of Ill Health!”) and in fact just prompts his sister to call and yell at him for twenty minutes about keeping secrets from her, until he manages to interject enough words to reassure her that it’s all not true.

He’s not dying. He’s not even sick. He’s just never very hungry these days, and he’s tired all the time, and he is, indisputably, very alone.

When _Prometheus_ premieres, he calls in a few favors from friends and sneaks into the London opening, very late and hiding inside the biggest of his sweaters and hoping to go unnoticed. It works. He sits in the back and smiles, inadvertently, when Michael turns up on the screen, larger than life and right there in front of him.

Michael is in New York, of course, where he’d gone to be present at _that_ premiere. So this—being here, in London, indulging himself, just this once—that’s perfectly safe. It has to be. He can let himself have this. If it’s all he gets to have, he can’t not take it. He’s not that strong.

He watches Michael on the screen. As always, the performance is flawless. Michael inhabits every role with complete devotion to his character, of course. Even here, when his character is technically an android, he’s still the most compelling person in the film, whenever he’s on camera. Even if James weren’t biased, which of course he is, that would still be true.

At one point Michael’s doing some sort of laboratory work, alone in the room and the scene. He’s humming to himself, probably in order to make his character closer to human. And, after a second of thinking, _hey, that sounds familiar!,_ James realizes that that’s because it is.

Michael is humming his song. _That_ song. The _Arthur_ _Christmas_ song.

James misses the entire rest of the movie, after that, because all the thoughts in his head are spinning around in vertiginous circles, and he can barely remember to breathe, much less think.

Afterwards, he escapes out a side door, and then stands there in the icy night wondering what he should do. Call Michael again? That hadn’t worked last time. Maybe this time Michael’s sending him a message, though.

Or maybe not. Maybe Michael doesn’t even know he’s humming that particular song, or maybe the director’d picked it because he’d thought it would be funny and maybe Michael hadn’t wanted to do it at all, or, worse, just hadn’t cared.

Maybe he’d only imagined the familiarity, and misheard the damn song, because he so wants it to be true.

So he doesn’t call Michael, after all. Just gets into the nearest cab, and gives vague directions for his hotel, and leans into the comforting anonymity of the stained seat cushions, and shuts his eyes.

Back at the hotel, all the omnipresent exhaustion, emotional and physical, comes up like an inconsiderate tidal wave once he’s in the elevator, and threatens to overwhelm him. He holds his breath against the pain of drowning, and steps out into the hallway under the dim light of artificial lamps and the gaze of the uncurtained and starlit window, watching the monochromatic carpet because that’s easier than lifting his head, and wishing futilely that his room key would simply materialize in his hand.

And then he hears a shocked and instantly recognizable voice gasp, “James?”

And he looks up from the voiceless carpet to see Michael sprinting down the hallway toward him in a desperate whirlwind of motion.

“James,” Michael whispers again, skidding to a halt in front of him. James hasn’t moved, and still has one foot in the air, even, because he’s completely forgotten that he has the ability to set it down again.

He can’t even talk. If he says something, anything, Michael might vanish.

“Oh, god,” Michael says, and those hands reach out to rest on James’s shoulders, beneath the enormous sweater, and then run up and down his arms as if seeking reassurance that everything’s real. “You—they said you were sick, and I didn’t believe—but you _are_ , you’re so thin, you’re not—”

“I’m not,” James manages, and finally lowers his foot to the carpet. “I’m not, it’s not like that, I swear, I’m fine—”

“But you—”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” James says, and now he kind of wants to laugh, hysterically, because somehow it’s the idiotic tabloids that’ve got Michael to come see him. Of all the things that could have happened, to bring about the encounter, he’d never have expected that one. “I didn’t—the weight, for that role, that’s all padding, I couldn’t gain enough, so they—I mean, I’ve lost some, I know, but it’s not that dramatic. And the rest of it is just the stupid paparazzi, come on, you know—”

“Are you sure? If you aren’t—”

“I think I would know,” James points out, not as emphatically as he means to because one of Michael’s hands has slid up to cup his face now, resting along the curve of his cheek.

“Have you actually seen anyone? Doctors, I mean. Have you—”

“No! Because I don’t need to, all right? It’s really just the fucking media, you don’t have to—please don’t worry. Honestly. Not about this. Not about me.”

“I heard,” Michael says, and the hands, against his skin, shake, briefly, “that you—they said it might be serious, and I didn’t know—I didn’t believe it, not then, but all the pictures—and you, right now, you look—”

“It’s the stupid fucking sweater,” James says in response, and does laugh, just a little. “I wore this one on purpose, actually, trying to hide, sort of, because I went to your premiere—”

“You—”

“You were humming.”

“What?’ Michael now looks petrified, like he thinks James might be delusional. The hand brushing against his cheek doesn’t move, but the hand on his shoulder squeezes, hard, a terrified grip that’ll probably leave bruises, later. James doesn’t protest.

“In the movie. Your movie.” And he hadn’t meant to mention that, hadn’t planned to bring that up in case the answer was no, but his brain isn’t dictating his responses right now, evidently. “You were humming my—did you—was that on purpose? For me?”

“In the movie—Of course it was for you! I love you!”

“You _what_?”

“I’ve thought about you every fucking day. I couldn’t—and you were right, when you said no, that night, you’re married and I should never have—I just couldn’t not ask—but you were right and I was wrong and I know you don’t want me, not like that, not someone who would ask you that—”

“I’m not married.”

“You…you what?”

“I’m not married.” James stares down at the carpet, because the struggle of concern and amazement and disbelief and joy across that face is too brilliantly painful to gaze at for long. “We didn’t—well. She saw that interview, you know. And I—I could’ve pretended. Could’ve gone on pretending. But it wasn’t going to work.”

“James—”

“I said no that night because I was married. But I wanted to say yes. And I…” He hesitates. Meets, finally, those astonishedly hopeful eyes with his own. “I’m not married now. And I still want to say yes. And I love you.”

“You—oh, fuck—James, you—you mean that? Really?”

“Really. As much as you do.”

“As much as everything, then. Always. And you—you seriously are all right? You’re not—you even feel thin, you know. Are you _sure_ —”

“Very sure. How’d you know where I’d be staying?”

“I…” Michael eyes the mutely watching hotel carpet, as if it might spontaneously produce a confession on his behalf. The beige fabric gazes placidly back, undisturbed by all the turbulent emotion, and doesn’t speak up.

“I might’ve made some phone calls. Um. Kind of panicked phone calls. I might owe your agent an apology. Or two. But seeing those stories—hearing that you might be—I had to find you. Even if you didn’t want—I had to know. And I had to tell you I was sorry. If you—and I am sorry, I am, this is because of me, you and Anne-Marie and the—and you looking like this—”

“It’s not because of you.”

“I—”

“It’s because of me. Or you _and_ me. Or because I fell in love with you. And I wouldn’t—” He reaches for Michael, this time. Uses one hand to get Michael to glance up from the imperturbable carpet and back in his direction, and looks directly into those complicated and now-anxious eyes, pale grey and blue and green as the thawing of ice in spring.

“I wouldn’t change that. Honestly. Despite everything. I can’t—even if you don’t want me, after I turned you down—I’m pretty sure I’m always going to love you.”

“Fuck,” Michael says again, and pulls James in more closely, fitting their bodies together in the hallway, wrapping James up in his arms. “I love you. And I want you. Don’t ever think that I don’t want you. Because I do.”

“You want—it’s not just me. That you’d be getting. I mean. I have a son.” Why is he trying so hard to puncture his own happiness, again? But it isn’t real; it can’t be real. He wants it too badly.

“I know. I don’t care.”

“You—”

“I mean, no, I do care. I just don’t mind. Did you think I never thought about—you did, didn’t you? James, you idiot.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to insult the person you’re trying to reassure.”

“I know you have Brendan. I know—I always knew I could never have you if I didn’t want you both. I’ll quit smoking if you want. And I can teach him about motorcycles and you can show him how to bake a quiche.”

“Oh, fuck you,” James mutters, to that, but he can feel the smile starting to tug at his heart, unexpectedly nudging it out of the cold greyness and into someplace new and bright. Still, he can’t quite accept it. He’s standing there right on the edge of joy, vivid and glittering, and it’s too damn sudden and too much like everything he’s tried so hard not to dream about and he can’t let it all sink in, just in case it’s yanked away.

If he lets that shining emotion inside, lets it become a part of him, and then it vanishes, it’ll take all of him along, this time. Evisceration, he thinks. All the pieces of himself cleanly sliced away and emptied out, unwanted, into the night.

So he says, an already-doomed attempt at one last defensive maneuver, “You never called me back.”

_“What?”_

“After you called—I had a missed call from—I did call you back. Months ago. You—”

And Michael lets out an amazing string of curses, involving at least three languages and several words James has never heard before. He wonders, vaguely, secure in the sensation of Michael’s arms tightening around him, whether he should ask for a translation.

“That was the night I lost my phone. I was—I remember calling you. I do. But I—we’d just got done filming, we went to a bar, and I got spectacularly drunk and I just wanted to hear your voice and I dropped the fucking phone, somewhere, in the street, after, and I—I’m so fucking sorry, James, you must’ve thought I—I would have answered. I promise. You have to believe me. Please.”

He nods, against one muscular shoulder, because he can’t quite reply out loud. They could’ve avoided this. All of this. Michael would have answered him. Wanted to talk to him. Still wants him now.

Apparently one nod wasn’t enough; Michael sounds close to frantic this time. “James, please. I love you. Please tell me you—I didn’t—you do believe me, right?”

“You made me sing,” James says, once he can find words again, in response. “In public. With you. And you even got me to laugh when I did it. Of course I believe you. I love you.”

“Oh thank god. I mean…thank you. I mean I’ll ask you to sing in interviews with me forever if you’d like that. I mean I love you, too.”

And James really does laugh, at that. Shuts his eyes for a second, and lets himself believe it. Lets himself believe everything.

The world, when he opens his eyes again, spins around him, scintillatingly dizzy with elation, exhaustion, the abrupt bleeding out of the tension that’s been holding him upright for months. He leans against Michael’s welcoming solidity, a little more heavily than he means to, while the floor comes to a conclusion about behaving itself beneath his feet.

“James?” Michael’s voice catches on his name, scraping across the syllables. That’s from concern, James realizes. And Michael shouldn’t be concerned.

“I’m fine…”

“James, look at me. When did you last eat anything?”

“Um…”

“You don’t remember?”

“Yes I do. I—”

“And coffee doesn’t count. Not even when you put raspberry syrup in it.”

“Raspberry syrup is entirely a food. But if you’re not letting me count that one…I think I had dinner, yesterday. Unless that was lunch.”

At which Michael comes up with a completely new eruption of profanities. James is quite certain that most of these are both anatomically impossible and fairly blasphemous, but they definitely sound impressive.

“I don’t think you can do that with the raspberry syrup. Or were you suggesting it should be able to do that to itself? Because—”

“I’m trying to decide whether I want to drag you to the nearest doctor or make you eat every single edible item in this hotel or kiss you, right now, and you are _not_ helping.”

“You want to kiss me? Right now?”

“James,” Michael grumbles, sounding absolutely exasperated and frustratedly in love, “I want to kiss you always,” and then leans down and closes the distance between them and brings their lips together.

Those lips taste like warmth and worry and desire. Like cigarette smoke because Michael has been nervous and Michael pulls out the cigarettes when he’s under siege by intensified emotions. Like everything James has been craving, through all those empty days and months. Like the return of color, bursting joyously through all the mute and shadowy numbness of unending fog.

He kisses back. Tries to show Michael all of that, all of that want and hope and aching need, opening his lips for Michael’s curious tongue, letting himself be discovered, and exploring right back, both of them learning each other, inside and out, every tiny glorious and incredible detail.

Michael stops, after what James considers far too short an eternity. Pulls back, a little. Licks his lips. “James—”

“I love you.” He wants to say that forever. Because he can say it, now. Out loud. To the world. To Michael.

“I love you. But I’m not going to kiss you in the middle of the hotel hallway all night. You—”

“You’re not? Because I wouldn’t mind. You can.”

“—you’re about to fall over right here in my arms and—”

“I am not!”

“—and you need to eat something, and you can stop looking at me like that, I know what you’re thinking and I didn’t mean that, at least not now—”

“That was just me looking at you normally, you know. But now I know what _you’re_ thinking. And yes. Very enthusiastically yes. And why not, now?”

“Because now we’re going back to your room and ordering everything on the room service menu. And I’m not kissing you again until you’ve eaten all of it. Or tried to. All right?”

“Do _I_ get to kiss _you_?”

“No.”

“That’s just mean.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re evil. I’m in love with an evil supervillain.”

“Yes,” Michael tells him, “and I love you, too,” and James has to grin, at that. Because it’s true. Because they’re still standing in the nondescript hotel corridor, outside the faceless elevators, and the walls and the carpet and the shiny elevator doors all echo with it. Because Michael’s arms are still around him, and they’re warm.

Because the stars have come out again, beyond the wide-eyed opening of the window, lighting up the night with kaleidoscopic delight. Because they’re making promises about room service and food and that enthusiastic yes for later and all of those words are only other words for love.

Because Michael starts to hum, softly, under his breath, as they head down that corridor, finally, towards their room. And James, when he recognizes the tune, remembers the interview, smiles. Leans into Michael’s arm, around his shoulders. And sings along.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [And a day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1596209) by [shayzgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shayzgirl/pseuds/shayzgirl)




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